


Bury The Ring

by Sardonic_Grin



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Dirge of Cerberus: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020), Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Wrestling, Dark fluff, Drug Use, M/M, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Slash, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29272659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sardonic_Grin/pseuds/Sardonic_Grin
Summary: Cloud is an up and coming wrester for the major corporation: Shinra Wrestling. He's a master in the ring, but lacks the confidence on the mic. He teams up with the heel, Reno the Viper, with a secret past to help advance his wrestling career. However, there's an undeniable spark between the two forced foes that threatens their future at the company.
Relationships: Reno/Cloud Strife
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Bury The Ring

They were on Cloud as soon as he pushed through the door.

And when it clicked behind him, a rogue wave of words pulled him under water. Disembodied voices swirling with names that he would sooner forget. Spitting phrases with words he can barely wrap around his stubborn mountain tongue; but he’s learned to fake it enough that these lesser politicians wouldn’t think to get one over on him. The only time he’s willing to drop the Strife name. Reminding them he’s been in the business since his mother’s womb. That the ring was more his home than the western continent town, the south of everyone’s jokes. He knows what lurks behind the curtains and it isn’t pretty. And while he doesn’t want to peer through it, because then he’d really have to question what the fuck he was doing in Midgar, but he knows it’s equally foolhardy to pretend it isn’t there. The Scavenger. Waiting to pick at your body once it’s a corpse. Milk you for a storyline under you become a faded memory. Like a polaroid in the sun.

And fuck, he’s starting to sound like his mother.

And hasn’t he been wishing for this moment since he was old enough to believe in fairy tales? This is the dream. The blood sweat and tears he poured into it still showed as disappearing scars littered on his body from his last night in the independent circuit. It became worth it when he briefly returned home to say goodbye to the kids who were now wearing his face on their shirts. Talking about him like he was already a Superstar. Comparing him to the great ones- Sephiroth. And he would be lying through his wavering smile if that didn’t cause his stomach to absolutely explode into shrapnel; which continued to pulse as he walked through Nibelheim with little feet behind him. 

And continued when he passed by the house filled with phantoms. The one he grew up in. The one he hoped would have a light one waiting for him to return. But there’s no light. There hasn’t been for at least thirteen years. 

It pulsed again when he tried to swerve his mother’s house. But she’s already on the porch when he walked past. Pinched face. Arms tight around her body. 

And she sounded just like the other swarm of voices currently rattling through his ears like bullets. Muffled. Far away. Not even on the same planet. But he already knows the words which fell from his mother’s thin lips. The same script she threw at him when he decided to join a wrestling club at eight. And again when he was plucked from some no-name gym to the indies at sixteen. And again at twenty-one. While the man she thrusted upon him at nine sat there with that smug look glaring from behind a cup of coffee. They wanted him to be a cop. Like the other boys in town when they gave up on leaving. 

But he was done living his life for everyone else. Wrestling was  _ his _ choice. He was doing this- writing his soul away to whatever devil would benefit from it- for him. Not his mother. Not Don, or Dan, or whatever-his-name is. Not the kids who wanted his name scribbled on their notebooks. Not for Tifa who went about two years before him and probably made this next step possible. 

Or the phantoms in abandoned houses. 

“We have to get you ready for television.” 

Cloud’s ripped from his memory. The voice holding the clipboard and wearing a headset glares with a twitch in her large brown eyes for his response. 

“I thought this was a dark match,” Cloud arches his brow. 

“We’re bumping you,” the producer, he’s assuming, adjusts her headset with an impatient huff. She’s been speaking since she held out her hand and said her name, which immediately fell from Cloud’s ear. Sissy? Sass? “The president saw your last match and wanted to get you on the T.V as soon as possible.”

“My last fight?” That was less than a week ago. He thinks. Time has been an illusion since he signed his name on the paper which handed him more gil than anyone in his hometown has ever seen combined. He went up against Lionheart for the belt. The kid was three years younger. Talked less than Cloud. And his ring persona was wood. But the owners saw something, maybe the same thing Shinra saw, that wood can be carved to be anything they want. Or burned just as easy. Cloud saw the same fire in Squall’s eyes that ignited in his blues as soon as his entrance music blared through the speakers. Spiking his adrenaline straight to his brain. So Cloud didn’t feel too bad when it was time to pass the torch. “But I lost that fight…”

“Yeah and you sold it,” she continues, “You’re going up against.” She ruffles through the papers on the clipboard, “Scorpion. Second match. He’s going to be on stage trying to convince Zack to be his new partner and then Zack introduces you. He’s going to try to fight you first, and then you and Zack finish him off.”

This information Cloud tattoos to his brain. Scorpion sounded like an echo from the back recesses of his head, but he’s been hearing Zack Fair’s name for a better part of three years. Especially in the recent promos since his partner, Kunsel, suffered an injury that ended his career. Now Zack Fair, half of the team “Soldier First Class'' was desperately scouring the world for his new partner. And found him. In the same western hemisphere.  _ What luck! _ The blogs buzzed. And Cloud couldn’t help the smile everytime one of them guessed  _ right _ . His stomach and chest both simultaneously exploded as they walked the black floors and sped past lined walls with portraits of former and current Superstars. They blurred past, smiling with him. 

Game time. 

The locker room was an organism all its own and breathed with a certain life which ensnared all who dared walk amongst its walls. The disembodied voices crescendo from behind the doors with the sign above which read “Abandon all Hope Ye Who Enter Here” like some sorry joke a wrestler from the 80s might have chuckled at. The stench hit Cloud first. More musky than his old haunt. But familiar. Heavy it hung in the room. And sent the small hairs on his neck upright. The poor girl starts rattling off instructions. But Cloud’s engrossed in the size of the room. The bustle. Music burying conversations. As forty men move like maggots on rotting meat. Changing into their personas. Mingling with the friends they have within these walls, who are their enemies in the ring. 

“Is Vincent here?” she asks the herd. 

“Vincent ain’t never here!” someone shouts.

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Barret then?”

“The hell you want me now, Cissnei?” The voice of a train ,and the body of a brick wall tearing at the sky, rises from his seat. Barret, Cloud presumes, saunters over to the pair with a small chuckle. He’s bigger in person, Cloud acknowledges. All stone muscle poking from underneath the white muscle tank and tattered vest; but his eyes, small and black, look more inviting than dangerous.

“Cloud,” Cissnei ignores his jest, “this is Barret, he’ll show you the ropes.” 

“Cloud Strife, right?” Barret extends his hand and Cloud is caught off guard for a moment at the metal arm up to his elbow glimmering in the artificial light. 

He takes the man’s hand and flinches when the cold metal meets his skin. “Yes, heard a lot about you, Barret.”

“Like that I have a fake arm,” he smirks.

“Just, didn’t think they’d really let you fight with a metal arm. That must hurt the other guy.”

Barret unloads a robust laugh, then squeezes his wrist with his good hand, twists and pops the whole limb off. “I switch it out for the matches. It’s amazing what the costume department can do.”

“I’ll let you take it from here, B.” Cissnei leaves Cloud with instructions for his match and swiftly exits the locker room before any of the more degenerate of them could notice her. And Cloud immediately senses the crawl of budding anxiety tip toe up his spine as he scans his new surroundings. His home. Not the apartment in Sector 2, The Shinra Wrestling Corporation rented for him and two other jobbers on the team he barely said hello to when he left this morning. This locker room, with the rectangular alcoves in the wall, one for each wrestler to house their plain clothes and artifacts from their career. Each with their names and ring personas on plated plagues over their individual lockers. And as Clouds moves his eyes around he notices a severe lack of his name... _ anywhere _ . 

“They throw you to the wolves, huh?” Barret comments as he reattaches his arm. 

“No kiddin’.”

“Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour of this dump,” he throws his metal limb across Cloud’s shoulders. And it takes everything to hide the grunt that escapes his lungs. He allows the taller man to handle him like a rag doll. Showing him the lockers of other men who grace the building, some of whom occupy the space. The tag team of Biggs and Wedge, already with their trademark red bandanas tied around their skulls greet Cloud with over enthused hugs- touchers, Cloud laments with a scowl he forces into a smile when they release him. He encounters his roommates again, Johnny and Leslie, who neither seem to realize he is the third body in their apartment. Other smaller guys approach Cloud, hands out, excited to meet him-

They've watched his matches-

He’s talented-

They can’t wait to work with him-

And Cloud can’t seem to find his voice to thank them for every empty word they say. 

It’s not that he isn’t grateful, or excited. 

But there’s a ghost creeping around the back of his skull threatening to put a damper on this otherwise, big moment for him-

He tries to sigh it all away. Remember the muted orange lights with the more tangible insects hiding in the bulbs have been replaced by the LEDs that burn his eyes and highlight every flaw in his skin. And this is a symbol of him making it- and everyone is just as excited, for some reason, for his rise…

So what’s stopping him from feeling the same?

“Ay yo, there’s Zack!” Barret shouts over the cluster of other bodies looking to touch his exposed hands. “My guy! I got your boy here!” Gently shaking Cloud and somehow still giving him whiplash. 

Cloud follows his look, to a mess of black spikes which push through the others without much regard. Though most moved out of the way for the black clad, sunglass wearing, juggernaut. And Zack is about what Cloud expected from watching his matches. Tall. Thin. Fit. With a glowing white smile and eyes so blue they resembled ice crystals. They shimmered, he thought. But he expected to be drawn into them like he was drawn to Zack’s fighting style. Tight and disciplined. Instead, Cloud felt another wave of unease as the older boy extended his hand for a rehearsed greeting. 

“Zack Fair, real pumped to work with you!” His smile wide. 

Cloud takes his hand and it’s soft, but limp. “Yeah, same.”

Irony. Maybe. That this would be their first meeting, right before they were to go on stage and unload their entire false history to the fans. And this wasn’t the case for other tag teams- not even close. There had to be a history for the tag to function like a ballet. Chemistry. A deep understanding of one another. It’s why brothers always worked. Or cousins. Or teams who have worked through the circuit for years. Your tag team partner needed to know you better than maybe you knew yourself. But this was an act of desperation. An unscripted injury. The belt on the line. And the crowd screaming for another  _ pretty boy _ to satisfy the growing female fanbase Thus, 

Cloud.

“We should link up before the match,” Zack continues, “go over some things-”

“You ain’t takin him now?” Barret questions, “Kid needs to get acclimated,”

“I got to get in the right head space, Barret. You know this.” But Barret rolls his eyes. 

“Hey, where’s your locker kid? I’ll get you before we have to be on-”

“He’s taking Kunsel’s,” Barret answers for Cloud, “Obviously?”

Zack’s smile wavers for the first time like a crack in an otherwise flawless portrait.

“Well, Kunsel is coming back….so?”

_ Now that was news _ to Cloud. And almost like all the air in the locker room was sucked through a vacuum, silence seemed to descend upon the trio. Barret didn’t say anything immediately, just stared with narrowed eyes like two black vortexes, waiting for Zack to come back to reality. But Zack, instead dodges the look with a new mission.

“Cloud, this is your locker,” he announces as if fact. The locker his pointed glare highlights is empty, for sure, with a layer of dust on the ledge. And the plaque, scratched and faded, held a broken name.

“Veld’s?” Barret halts his question and just sighs, “You gonna have to deal with  _ The Viper _ .”

“He knows where to find me if he has a problem,” Zack waves Barret off and returns to Cloud, “You’re going to do great kid. Just get settled and get to know the guys.” He flashes him a toothy smile and a thumbs up with neither impresses, nor, excites Cloud- who begrudgingly returns to the thumbs up okay before Zack jogs out of the room.

Barret mumbles curses in a foriegn tongue as Cloud stares empty space between and with an air of caution he hopes no one notices, throws his bag into his new home. 

“Sorry about that,” the older man apologizes for a sin he didn’t commit, “Zack’s having a bit of trouble since Kunsel was forced to retire.”

“It’s cool, I know what it’s like,” Cloud lies. 

But it’s easy to understand how bonds are solidified in this business- and how important it was to maintain them. Cloud wondered, to himself, if he would feel that way about a colleague...ever.

Then, 

With a rumble-

Walls shaking and the floor below vibrates.

Out from the speakers, suffocating the disembodied conversations, 

It’s a bass and a beat knocking down the foundation like a sledgehammer;

And Kendrick Lamar’s voice shouts from the audio system. To Barret’s groan.

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” he laments.

A disheveled, auburn haired, gentleman stomps over to Barret, clutching a black bound book in his hand so tight, Cloud could see the whites of his knuckles. 

“Barret, this is  _ unacceptable, _ ” he stutters out through clenched teeth.

“Look man, it’s his turn to pick the music…”

“I’m  _ trying  _ to read. I  _ need _ to read before my match or I won’t be in the right space for my monologue.”

_ So many divas in this place _ , Cloud thinks to himself, as Barret’s attention is stolen by the frantic heel. Cloud recognized him. The former Northern Continental Champion, who’s belt means nothing since the circuit was absorbed by the larger company. Now forced to be part of the trio, the well-feared, angels of the SWC. Feared. How  _ laughable _ , as he stands there waving the book clutched in his hand at the injustice befallen upon him, as the music crescendos.

And Cloud, curious, follows the wires on the ceiling attached to the rumbling speakers. He can feel himself gliding. Grazing against the other bodies, who neither regard nor stop him as he enters a part of the locker room drenched in bright LED lights. The makeup room. Rows of mirrors and vanities for the main roster to complete their transformations. 

The music swells as Cloud takes curious steps towards to the end of the room;

Catching his reflection in the mirrors. 

The sleeveless turtleneck which showcased the small muscles that tickle down his arms. The pants that hugged his hips gave the girl fans, or boy fans, a reason to fantasize what he looked like without them. And he figured his body, what it had to offer, despite being one of the smaller guys, was the reason he got pushed to the big leagues,

But he hid in the back of his mind, that his skin often felt alien to him. 

And if there was any feedback he was tired of hearing- that gaining confidence needs to start being the focal point. Because being skilled only gets you so far. Being handsome with pretty boy features can make your marketable, and having a fit body that everyone wants to tear apart makes you a sex symbol.

But all that shit means nothing if your voice dies the moment the lights push across all that exposed flesh.

And Cloud is reminded of all his flaws with every passing image in the mirrors. 

And how he often doesn’t recognize the blue eyes staring back at him. 

Then, 

He stops when his reflection becomes engulfed by the other presence in the room. 

In front of Cloud, standing in front of a vanity mirror, his hands and arms flying along to the music as he raps the lyrics to the song blasting through the speakers. His shirtless body moving like rogue waves tearing at the sea. His muscles rippling along the black back tattoo:  _ Las Serpientes, _ interrupted by the swaying long red ponytail- like a flame cutting through his skin. And Cloud couldn’t stop his eyes from traveling down the strangers back to his left bicep, which erupted in black and red colors, the body of a snake wrapped around his toned arm. 

And just like a snap,

The sound disappeared. 

And if there was anyone else in that room, Cloud didn’t notice.

He stared at the stranger’s reflection. The sunglasses hiding his eyes as he continued his song. The tattoos littered his skin. Two guns right under prominent collar bones with “muerto” across. And right over the tight jeans that barely hung to his hips as he moved, “maldito”. 

Cloud mouthed the words. Wrapping them around his tongue. Like he could taste every letter. And he feels the oxygen leave his lungs…

And then,

The world stops. 

The amatuer rapper pauses his movements once his eyes lock onto Cloud’s reflection over his shoulder. He cocks his head. A serpent-like smile stretches across his face and his canines flash against the light, dragging Cloud back to reality. He removes his glasses to reveal two turquoise eyes framed by red, fang like, tattoos. 

“Well,” he coos, his voice like whiskey and caramel- smooth and bitter- snaps Cloud at full attention. “What do we have here?” He says to Cloud’s image.

Cloud tried remembering how to speak in this second language, and found his lips dried.

And sensing something, the creature in front of him turns to face him. 

“Fresh meat?” he asks, running his tongue over the sharpness of his teeth. 

Cloud shakes off the creeping...nerves? Was it nerves? And reminds himself...who the fuck he is. He relaxes his shoulders, “You could say that?”

The red-head leans against the table and scans Cloud’s form with a curious expression. “You the new baby face they plucked from that hick mountain town, yo?” An accent Cloud couldn’t place drips on each word. 

“Unless there’s another wrestler from a hick mountain town?”

“Well look at you,” he crosses his arms over his chest, “got to skip the shitty Western Intercontinental route and go right to the big ol’ city? You  _ must be _ special.”

And Cloud pushes a smile across his face. “Now that sounds more like it.” He extends his hand, “Cloud Strife.”

The other man stares at the limb like he’d never seen a hand before. And Cloud watches two blue marbles dart back and forth- as if trying to pull the appropriate response from the back of his head. 

Then he grabs Cloud’s hand. And his shake is firm, tight. Cloud can feel the pressure on his bones, fighting not to crack. And the blonde makes sure to return the favor; flexing his own arm so he could see the veins pulse. But the red-head didn’t even flinch. His smirk reappears as he eyes maintain their narrowed stare into Cloud’s own. 

“Reno,” he practically hums his name. 

And Cloud buries the shiver down his spine with a head tilt, “Reno…got a last name?”

“Heh,” he releases Cloud’s hand, “Turks don’t got last names, you gotta know that.”

The Turks. The faction of heels considered the “muscle” of the Shinra family. Tseng, the Cobra, Rude, Black Mamba, which would make the man in front of him. “So, you’re the Viper then?”

“So, you  _ did  _ do your research then.”

“Read your Shinrapedia page.”

Reno chuckled. “Didn’t know they had the internet up in the mountains, yo.”

“You should leave the city more often,” Cloud shoves his throbbing hand into his pants with a twitch he hopes Reno didn’t sense.

“Psh,” he rolls his eyes, “For what?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “A clue?”

Cloud wonders when his mouth got smart. And Reno snorts and drops his arms, resting his thumbs at the hem of his pants, so Cloud could see the full majesty of his exposed, lean, chest. The rest of the tattoos in focus; a typewriter style “4” on taking up his left side, dagger through a skull on his right. The hot chick in a luchador mask on his left forearm holding a gun in her hand. All black and gray. All shine against his skin. And Cloud’s jealous of both the needle that ran along his skin and the heel who could sport tattoos in the first place. 

Baby faces don’t get to play in the ink. 

“Anything else that page tell ya?” Reno asks. 

Cloud pretends to ponder his question. The page had nothing important. No background details on the Viper. Reno’s past was just as much a mystery as his persona. “Just that you’re an absolute nightmare in the locker room.”

At this, Reno lets out a distressing laugh from the bottom of his throat. “Word? I’m only a nightmare if you’re lookin’ for one.”

And something over takes Cloud. And he can’t tell if it’s the way Reno’s voice coils around his brain like a constrictor, or the black ink on his body he can see hiding old scars, or just that the music has changed to something that got his blood pulsing. 

But he can’t catch the word that flies from his lips. “Promise?”

They stare at each other.

Like they are the only two in this world. The bright lights have Cloud’s forehead beading with sweat,  _ he tells himsel _ f. Reno looks cool, unmoved, but Cloud catches him licking his lips. Like the blonde is now something he needs to devour. 

And Cloud doesn’t remember the last time he felt like this- or if he ever had this feeling. The sensation of being viewed as prey but wanting to be torn apart. Bare handed. He wanted to fight Reno in the ring just to feel those impossibly strong hands on him. Bringing him to a point just before he breaks. Dangling death right in front of him. Ripping it away. Like being choked out...right before he passes out, being brought back to life with gasping breath,

Yes, he wants Reno’s hands on him. 

And yes, he’s felt this before. And he crushed it with the same alcohol that created the ghosts in his life. And he knows there’s poison somewhere in this locker room- because some things will never change. But he doesn’t want to run this time-

And the other man drags eyes up and down his form, drinking in the sight of the smaller boy. Cloud feels  _ invaded _ . Reno pushes himself up. Stands straight but doesn’t say anything, just allowing his eyes do the talking-

And Cloud likes what they have to say.

Then Reno’s name being called from the other end of the room breaks the scene. 

“Yo, we’re up for a promo!” A bald headed man calls from the door before disappearing. 

Reno clicks his tongue like he’s disappointed, and grabs the leather jacket on the back of his seat, throwing it over his torso; hiding the artwork which seems like a sin, to Cloud. He toys with his sunglasses in his hands as he approaches Cloud. Getting right in front of the shorter man. Close enough that Cloud could feel the heat radiating off Reno. The smell of his cologne straight to his brain; imprinting himself on the blonde. Cloud tries to control his breathing. Even. 

Reno offers him one more once over before he covers those oceans of eyes. 

“Don’t tempt me with a good time, baby face,” he purrs. “You got no idea what I could do to you.”

Cloud takes one more dangerous step into Reno’s space. Looking up at him, Cloud leans in, unsure of how he managed to lose control of his body, but welcoming this change, he whispers into Reno’s ear. “And you have no idea what I could take.”

The taller man smirks when Cloud’s words hit his skin. He pulls back, just enough to look into his eyes- for some kind of break in the character. But stone eyes the color of the blue moon are unyielding. 

And Reno dares himself to hover his hands on the blonde's hips to guide him out of his way- just enough so he isn’t touching him. Not yet. And Cloud does what he’s silently told. And Reno bends into Cloud’s ear, to return the shiver his words caused. “See you in the ring, then.”

Reno leaves the room, and the sound returns. The smell of musk and bad perfume. And powder and charcoal. 

The chorus of voices. Words without meaning. In a language Cloud has forgotten for a few seconds after the red head left his sight. 

And he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for the last few minutes. Or seconds. Time seemed to both slow and fly. His spine still trembles as Reno’s words roll off his back. Yes, he’s felt this before. Not this powerful, no. Not even close. 

He catches himself in Reno’s mirror. Cheeks flushed. Eyes half opened like he’s on a drug. And he can see the way his chest rises and falls every time those empty blue eyes flash in his head.

And Cloud smiles. 

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, this is going to be real different from Cherry Soda Boy. It's darker than my other stories, and I will be experimenting with dark themes. Some of these themes were heavily inspired by servetolive's "heaven of hell" including my characterization of Sector Four (we'll get to that). Also, Reno's latino in this because I said so, and I'm latina and would like a main character from my cultural background. Thanks to my mom who's gonna help me with the Spanish since she NEVER TAUGHT ME how to speak her MOTHER TONGUE. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
